•2T 

X7i 


POEMS  1918-21 


Ezra  Pound's  work  is  now  contained  in  the 
following  volumes: 

Provenca    (U.S.A.)    or    1908-1912 

Umbra  (English) 
Lustra  (American  Edition) 
Poems:    Including    Three    Portraits 

and  Four  Cantos 

The  Spirit  of  Romance 
Gaudier  Brzeska,  a  Memoir 
Pavannes  and  Divisions 
Instigations 

The  Sonnets  and  Ballate  of  Guido 

Cavalcanti 
From  the  Mss.  of  Ernest  Fenollosa: 

Noh 
Physique  de  1'Amour 

by  Remy  de  Gourmont 


Poetry : 
1908-1910 

1910-1917 
1918-1921 

Prose: 
1910 
1916 
1918 
1920 

Translations 
1912 

1916 
1921 


POEMS  1918-21 

INCLUDING 

THREE  PORTRAITS 

AND 

FOUR  CANTOS 


BY 

EZRA    POUND 


BONI    AND    LIVERIGHT 

PUBLISHERS  NEW   YORK 


POEMS    1918-1921 

COPYRIGHT,   1921,  BY 
BONI  AND  LlVERIGHT,  INC. 


PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


ffff 


Certain  poems  in  this  volume  have  appeared  in  "  The 
Dial,"  "The  New  Age,"  "The  Little  Review," 
"  Poetry ,"  and  private  issues  of  Egoist  and  Ovid 
Press. 


CONTENTS 
PORTRAITS 

PAGE 

1.  HOMAGE  TO  SEXTUS  PROPERTIUS  11 

[i-xii] 

2.  LANGUE  D'oc  35 

[i-v] 

Moeurs  Contempor dines  44 
p-viii] 

3.  HUGH  SELWYN  MAUBERLEY  49  - 

Part  I. 

Ode  pour  Selection  de  son  sepulchre  53 

n.  54 

III.  54 

IV.  55 
V-  56 

Yeux  Glauques  57 

11  Siena  mi  fe,   disfecemi  Maremma"  58 

Brennbaum  59 

Mr.  Nixon  59 

x-  60 

XL  60 

61 

ENVOI 

1919 


CONTENTS 

Part  II. 
1920 

(Mauberley) 

PAGE 

I.  63 

II.  64 

*'  The  age  demanded  "  66 

IV.  68 

Medallion  69 


CANTOS 

THE  FOURTH  CANTO  73 

THE  FIFTH  CANTO  78 

THE  SIXTH  CANTO  82 

THE  SEVENTH  CANTO  86 


HOMAGE   TO   SEXTUS    PROPERTIUS 


SHADES  of  Callimachus,  Coan  ghosts  of  Philetas 
It  is  in  your  grove  I  would  walk, 
I  who  come  first  from  the  clear  font 
Bringing  the  Grecian  orgies  into  Italy, 

and  the  dance  into  Italy. 
Who  hath  taught  you  so  subtle  a  measure, 

in  what  hall  have  you  heard  it; 
What  foot  beat  out  your  time-bar, 

what  water  has  mellowed  your  whistles? 

Out-weariers  of  Apollo  will,  as  we  know,  continue  their 
Martian  generalities. 

We  have  kept  our  erasers  in  order, 
A  new-fangled  chariot  follows  the  flower-hung  horses; 
A  young  Muse  with  young  loves  clustered  about  her 

ascends  with  me  into  the  aether,  .  .  . 
And  there  is  no  high-road  to  the  Muses. 

Annalists  will  continue  to  record  Roman  reputations, 
Celebrities  from  the  Trans-Caucasus  will  belaud  Roman 

celebrities 
And  expound  the  distentions  of  Empire, 

But  for  something  to  read  in  normal  circumstances? 
For  a  few  pages  brought  down  from  the  forked  hill 
unsullied? 

I  ask  a  wreath  which  will  not  crush  my  head. 
And  there  is  no  hurry  about  it; 
I  shall  have,  doubtless,  a  boom  after  my  funeral, 
Seeing  that  long  standing  increases  all  things 

regardless  of  quality. 

[ii] 


Arid'  tyho' would  "have  known  the  towers 

pulled  down  by  a  deal- wood  horse; 
Or  of  Achilles  withstaying  waters  by  Simois 
Or  of  Hector  spattering  wheel-rims, 

Or   of   Polydmantus,   by   Scamander,   or   Helenus   and 

Deiphoibos? 

Their  door-yards  would  scarcely  know  them,  or  Paris. 
Small  talk  O  Ilion,  and  O  Troad 

twice  taken  by  Oetian  gods, 
If  Homer  had  not  stated  your  case! 

And  I  also  among  the  later  nephews  of  this  city 

shall  have  my  dog's  day 

With  no  stone  upon  my  contemptible  sepulchre, 
My  vote  coming  from  the  temple  of  Phoebus  in  Lycia, 

at  Patara, 

And  in  the  mean  time  my  songs  will  travel, 
And  the  devirginated  young  ladies  will  enjoy  them 

when  they  have  got  over  the  strangeness, 
For  Orpheus  tamed  the  wild  beasts — 

and  held  up  the  Threician  river; 
And  Citharaon  shook  up  the  rocks  by  Thebes 

and  danced  them  into  a  bulwark  at  his  pleasure, 
And  you,  O  Polyphemus?    Did  harsh  Galatea  almost 
Turn  to  your  dripping  horses,  because  of  a  tune,  under 

Aetna? 

We  must  look  into  the  matter. 
Bacchus  and  Apollo  in  favour  of  it, 
There  will  be  a  crowd  of  young  women  doing  homage  to 

my  palaver, 

Though  my  house  is  not  propped  up  by  Taenarian 
columns  from  Laconia  (associated  with  Neptune 
and  Cerberus), 

[12] 


Though  it  is  not  stretched  upon  gilded  beams; 
My  orchards  do  not  lie  level  and  wide 

as  the  forests  of  Phaecia, 
the  luxurious  and  Ionian, 

Nor  are  my  caverns  stuffed  stiff  with  a  Marcian  vintage, 
(My  cellar  does  not  date  from  Numa  Pompilius, 
Nor  bristle  with  wine  jars) 
Yet  the  companions  of  the  Muses 

will  keep  their  collective  nose  in  my  books, 
And  weary  with  historical  data,  they  will  turn  to  my 
dance  tune. 

Happy  who  are  mentioned  in  my  pamphlets, 

the   songs   shall   be   a  fine   tomb-stone   over   their 
beauty. 

But  against  this? 
Neither  expensive  pyramids  scraping  the  stars  in  their 

route, 

Nor  houses  modelled  upon  that  of  Jove  in  East  Elis, 
Nor  the  monumental  effigies  of  Mausolus, 

are  a  complete  elucidation  of  death. 
Flame  burns,  rain  sinks  into  the  cracks 
And  they  all  go  to  rack  ruin  beneath  the  thud  of  the 
years. 

Stands  genius  a  deathless  adornment, 

a  name  not  to  be  worn  out  with  the  years. 


[13] 


II 

I  HAD  been  seen  in  the  shade,  recumbent  on  cushioned 
Helicon, 
the  water  dripping  from  Bellerophon's  horse, 
Alba,  your  kings,  and  the  realm  your  folk 

have  constructed  with  such  industry 
Shall  be  yawned  out  on  my  lyre  —  with  such  industry. 
My  little  mouth  shall  gobble  in  such  great  fountains, 
"  Wherefrom  father  Ennius,  sitting  before  I  came,  hath 
drunk." 

I  had  rehearsed  the  Curian  brothers,  and  made  remarks 

on  the  Horatian  javelin 
(Near  Q.  H.  Flaccus'  book-stall). 

"  Of "  royal  Aemilia,  drawn  on  the  memorial  raft, 
"  Of  "  the  victorious  delay  of  Fabius,  and  the  left-handed 

battle  at  Cannae, 
Of  lares  fleeing  the  "  Roman  seat  "... 

I  had  sung  of  all  these 
And  of  Hannibal, 

and  of  Jove  protected  by  geese. 

And  Phoebus  looking  upon  me  from  the  Castalian  tree, 
Said  then  "You  idiot!     What  are  you  doing  with  that 

water; 
"  Who  has  ordered  a  book  about  heroes? 

You  need,  Propertius,  not  think 
"  About  acquiring  that  sort  of  a  reputation. 

"  Soft  fields  must  be  worn  by  small  wheels, 
"  Your  pamphlets  will  be  thrown,  thrown  often  into  a 

chair 
"Where  a  girl  waits  alone  for  her  lover; 

"  Why  wrench  your  page  out  of  its  course? 
"  No  keel  will  sink  with  your  genius 


"  Let  another  oar  churn  the  water, 
"  Another  wheel,  the  arena;    mid-crowd  is  as  bad  as 
mid-sea." 

He   had   spoken,   and   pointed   me   a   place   with   his 
plectrum: 

Orgies  of  vintages,  an  earthern  image  of  Silenus 
Strengthened  with  rushes,  Tegaean  Pan, 
The  small  birds  of  the  Cytharean  mother, 

their  Punic  faces  dyed  in  the  Gorgon's  lake; 
Nine  girls,  from  as  many  countrysides 

bearing  her  offerings  in  their  unhardened  hands, 

Such  my  cohort  and  setting.    And  she  bound  ivy  to  his 

thyrsos; 
Fitted  song  to  the  strings; 

Roses  twined  in  her  hands. 

And  one  among  them  looked  at  me  with  face  offended, 
Calliope: 

"  Content  ever  to  move  with  white  swans ! 
"  Nor  will  the  noise  of  high  horses  lead  you  ever  to 

battle; 
"  Nor  will  the  public  criers  ever  have  your  name 

in  their  classic  horns, 
"  Nor  Mars  shout  you  in  the  wood  at  Aeonium, 

Nor  where  Rome  ruins  German  riches, 
"  Nor  where  the  Rhine  flows  with  barbarous  blood, 

and  flood  carries  wounded  Suevi. 
"  Obviously  crowned  lovers  at  unknown  doors, 
"  Night  dogs,  the  marks  of  a  drunken  scurry, 
"  These  are  your  images,  and  from  you  the  sorcerizing 

of  shut-in  young  ladies, 
"The  wounding  of  austere  men  by  chicane." 


Thus  Mistress  Calliope, 
Dabbling  her  hands  in  the  fount,  thus  she 
Stiffened  our  face  with  the  backwash  of  Philetas  the  Coan. 


Ill 

MIDNIGHT,  and  a  letter  comes  to  me  from  our 
mistress: 
Telling  me  to  come  to  Tibur,  At  once! ! : 
"  Bright  tips  reach  up  from  twin  towers, 

Anienan  spring  water  falls  into  flat-spread  pools." 

What  is  to  be  done  about  it? 

Shall  I  entrust  myself  to  entangled  shadows, 
Where  bold  hands  may  do  violence  to  my  person? 

Yet  if  I  postpone  my  obedience 

because  of  this  respectable  terror 
I  shall  be  prey  to  lamentations  worse  than  a  nocturnal 

assailant. 
And  I  shall  be  in  the  wrong, 

and  it  will  last  a  twelve  month, 
For  her  hands  have  no  kindness  me-ward, 

Nor  is  there  anyone  to  whom  lovers  are  not  sacred  at 

midnight 
And  in  the  Via  Sciro. 


If  any  man  would  be  a  lover 

he  may  walk  on  the  Scythian  coast, 
No  barbarism  would  go  to  the  extent  of  doing  him  harm, 

[16] 


The  moon  will  carry  his  candle, 

the  stars  will  point  out  the  stumbles, 
Cupid  will  carry  lighted  torches  before  him 

and  keep  mad  dogs  off  his  ankles. 

Thus  all  roads  are  perfectly  safe 

and  at  any  hour; 

Who  so  indecorous  as  to  shed  the  pure  gore  of  a  suitor?  ! 
Cypris  is  his  cicerone. 

What  if  undertakers  follow  my  track, 

such  a  death  is  worth  dying. 

She  would  bring  frankincense  and  wreaths  to  my  tomb, 
She  would  sit  like  an  ornament  on  my  pyre. 

Gods'  aid,  let  not  my  bones  lie  in  a  public  location 

with  crowds  too  assiduous  in  their  crossing  of  it; 
For  thus  are  tombs  of  lovers  most  desecrated. 

May  a  woody  and  sequestered  place  cover  me  with  its 

foliage 
Or  may  I  inter  beneath  the  hummock 

of  some  as  yet  uncatalogued  sand; 
At  any  rate  I  shall  not  have  my  epitaph  in  a  high  road. 

IV 
DIFFERENCE   OF   OPINION  WITH   LYGDAMUS 

TELL  me  the  truths  which  you  hear  of  our  constant 
young  lady, 
Lygdamus, 
And  may  the  bought  yoke  of  a  mistress  lie  with 

equitable  weight  on  your  shoulders; 


For  I  am  swelled  up  with  inane  pleasurabilities 

and  deceived  by  your  reference 
To  things  which  you  think  I  would  like  to 
believe. 


No  messenger  should  come  wholly  empty, 

and  a  slave  should  fear  plausibilities; 
Much  conversation  is  as  good  as  having  a  home. 
Out  with  it,  tell  it  to  me,  all  of  it,  from  the  beginning, 
I  guzzle  with  outstretched  ears. 
Thus?    She  wept  into  uncombed  hair, 

And  you  saw  it, 
Vast  waters  flowed  from  her  eyes? 

You,  you  Lygdamus 
Saw  her  stretched  on  her  bed,  — 

it  was  no  glimpse  in  a  mirror; 
No  gawds  on  her  snowy  hands,  no  orfevrerie, 
Sad  garment  draped  on  her  slender  arms. 
Her  escritoires  lay  shut  by  the  bed-feet. 
Sadness  hung  over  the  house,  and  the  desolated  female 

attendants 
Were  desolated  because  she  had  told  them  her  dreams. 


She  was  veiled  in  the  midst  of  that  place, 

Damp  wooly  handkerchiefs  were  stuffed  into  her  un- 

dryable  eyes, 
And   a   querulous    noise    responded    to    our    solicitous 

reprobations. 

For  which  things  you  will  get  a  reward  from  me, 

Lygdamus? 

To  say  many  things  is  equal  to  having  a  home. 

[18] 


And  the  other  woman  "  has  not  enticed  me 

by  her  pretty  manners, 
"  She  has  caught  me  with  herbaceous  poison, 

she  twiddles  the  spiked  wheel  of  a  rhombus, 
"  She  stews  puffed  frogs,  snake's  bones,  the  moulded 
feathers  of  screech  owls, 

"  She  binds  me  with  ravvles  of  shrouds. 

"  Black  spiders  spin  in  her  bed! 
"  Let  her  lovers  snore  at  her  in  the  morning! 

"  May  the  gout  cramp  up  her  feet! 
"  Does  he  like  me  to  sleep  here  alone, 

Lygdamus? 
"  Will  he  say  nasty  things  at  my  funeral?  " 

And  you  expect  me  to  believe  this 

after  twelve  months  of  discomfort? 


V 

i 

NOW  if  ever  it  is  time  to  cleanse  Helicon; 
to  lead  Emathian  horses  afield, 
And  to  name  over  the  census  of  my  chiefs  in  the 
Roman  camp. 
If  I  have  not  the  faculty,  "The  bare  attempt  would  be 

praise- worthy." 
"  In  things  of  similar  magnitude 

the  mere  will  to  act  is  sufficient." 

The  primitive  ages  sang  Venus, 

the  last  sings  of  a  tumult, 

And  I  also  will  sing  war  when  this  matter  of  a  girl  is 
exhausted. 


I  with  my  beak  hauled  ashore  would  proceed  in  a  more 

stately  manner, 
My  Muse  is  eager  to  instruct  me  in  a  new  gamut,  or 

gambetto, 
Up,  up  my  soul,  from  your  lowly  cantilation, 

put  on  a  timely  vigour, 

Oh  august  Pierides!     Now  for  a  large-mouthed  product. 
Thus: 

"  The  Euphrates  denies  its  protection  to  the  Parthian 

and  apologizes  for  Crassus," 
And  "  It  is,  I  think,  India  which  now  gives 

necks  to  your  triumph," 
And  so  forth,  Augustus.    "  Virgin  Arabia  shakes  in  her 

inmost  dwelling." 
If  any  land  shrink  into  a  distant  seacoast, 

it  is  a  mere  postponement  of  your  domination, 
And  I  shall  follow  the  camp,  I  shall  be  duly  celebrated, 
for  singing  the  affairs  of  your  cavalry. 
May  the  fates  watch  over  my  day. 


Yet  you  ask  on  what  account  I  write  so  many  love-lyrics 
And  whence  this  soft  book  comes  into  my  mouth. 
Neither  Calliope  nor  Apollo  sung  these  things  into  my 
ear, 

My  genius  is  no  more  than  a  girl. 

If  she  with  ivory  fingers  drive  a  tune  through  the  lyre, 

We  look  at  the  process 

How  easy  the  moving  fingers;  if  hair  is  mussed  on  her 
forehead, 

[20] 


If  she  goes  in  a  gleam  of  Cos,  in  a  slither  of  dyed  stuff, 
There  is  a  volume  in  the  matter;  if  her  eyelids  sink  into 

sleep, 

There  are  new  jobs  for  the  author, 
And  if  she  plays  with  me  with  her  shirt  off, 

We  shall  construct  many  Iliads. 
And  whatever  she  does  or  says 

We  shall  spin  long  yarns  out  of  nothing, 


Thus  much  the  fates  have  allotted  me,  and  if,  Maecenas, 
I  were  able  to  lead  heroes  into  armour,  I  would  not, 
Neither  would  I  warble  of  Titans,  nor  of  Ossa 

spiked  onto  Olympus, 
Nor  of  causeways  over  Pelion, 
Nor  of  Thebes  in  its  ancient  respectability, 

nor  of  Homer's  reputation  in  Pergamus, 
Nor  of  Xerxes'  two-barreled  kingdom,  nor  of  Remus  and 

his  royal  family, 

Nor  of  dignified  Carthaginian  characters, 
Nor  of  Welsh  mines  and  the  profit  Marus  had  out  of 

them. 
I  should  remember  Caesar's  affairs  .  .  . 

for  a  background, 
Although  Callimachus  did  without  them, 

and  without  Theseus, 

Without  an  inferno,  without  Achilles  attended  of  gods, 
Without  Ixion,  and  without  the  sons  of  Menoetius  and 
the  Argo  and  without  Jove's  grave  and  the  Titans. 

And  my  ventricles  do  not  palpitate   to  Caesarial   ore 

rotundas, 
Nor  to  the  tune  of  the  Phrygian  fathers. 

[21] 


Sailor,  of  winds;  a  plowman,  concerning  his  oxen; 
Soldier,  the  enumeration  of  wounds;  the  sheep-feeder,  of 

ewes; 

We,  in  our  narrow  bed,  turning  aside  from  battles: 
Each  man  where  he  can,  wearing  out  the  day  in  his 

manner. 

3 

It  is  noble  to  die  of  love,  and  honourable  to  remain 

uncuckolded  for  a  season. 
And  she  speaks  ill  of  light  women, 

and  will  not  praise  Homer 
Because  Helen's  conduct  is  "  unsuitable." 


w 


VI 


HEN,   when,   and   whenever   death   closes   our 
eyelids, 


Moving  naked  over  Acheron 

Upon    the    one    raft,    victor    and    conquered 

together, 
Marius  and  Jugurtha  together, 

one  tangle  of  shadows. 

Caesar  plots  against  India, 

Tigris  and  Euphrates  shall,  from  now  on,  flow  at  his 

bidding, 

Tibet  shall  be  full  of  Roman  policemen, 
The  Parthians  shall  get  used  to  our  statuary 

and  acquire  a  Roman  religion; 

[22] 


One  raft  on  the  veiled  flood  of  Acheron, 
Marius  and  Jugurtha  together. 

Nor  at  my  funeral  either  will  there  be  any  long  trail, 

bearing  ancestral  lares  and  images; 
No  trumpets  filled  with  my  emptiness, 
Nor  shall  it  be  on  an  Atalic  bed; 

The  perfumed  cloths  shall  be  absent. 
A  small  plebeian  procession. 

Enough,  enough  and  in  plenty 
There  will  be  three  books  at  my  obsequies 
Which  I  take,  my  not  unworthy  gift,  to  Persephone. 

You  will  follow  the  bare  scarified  breast 
Nor  will  you  be  weary  of  calling  my  name,  nor  too 
weary 

To  place  the  last  kiss  on  my  lips 
When  the  Syrian  onyx  is  broken. 

"  He  who  is  now  vacant  dust 
"Was  once  the  slave  of  one  passion:" 
Give  that  much  inscription 

"  Death  why  tardily  come?  " 

You,  sometimes,  will  lament  a  lost  friend, 

For  it  is  a  custom: 
This  care  for  past  men, 

Since  Adonis  was  gored  in  IDALIA,  and  the  Cytharean 
Ran  crying  with  out-spread  hair, 

In  vain,  you  call  back  the  shade, 
In  vain,  Cynthia.    Vain  call  to  unanswering  shadow, 

Small  talk  comes  from  small  bones. 

[23] 


VII 

ME  happy,  night,  night  full  of  brightness; 
Oh  couch  made  happy  by  my  long  delectations; 
How   many   words   talked   out   with   abundant 

candles; 

Struggles  when  the  lights  were  taken  away; 
Now  with  bared  breasts  she  wrestled  against  me, 

Tunic  spread  in  delay; 

And  she  then  opening  my  eyelids  fallen  in  sleep, 
Her  lips  upon  them;    and  it  was  her  mouth  saying: 
Sluggard! 

In  how  many  varied  embraces,  our  changing  arms, 
Her  kisses,  how  many,  lingering  on  my  lips. 
"  Turn  not  Venus  into  a  blinded  motion, 

Eyes  are  the  guides  of  love, 
Paris    took    Helen    naked    coming    from    the    bed    of 

Menelaus, 
Endymion's  naked  body,  bright  bait  for  Diana," 

—  such  at  least  is  the  story. 

While  our  fates  twine  together,  sate  we  our  eyes  with 

love; 
For  long  night  comes  upon  you 

and  a  day  when  no  day  returns. 
Let  the  gods  lay  chains  upon  us 

so  that  no  day  shall  unbind  them. 

Fool  who  would  set  a  term  to  love's  madness, 

For  the  sun  shall  drive  with  black  horses, 

earth  shall  bring  wheat  from  barley, 

The  flood  shall  move  toward  the  fountain 
Ere  love  know  moderations, 
The  fish  shall  swim  in  dry  streams. 

[24] 


No,  now  while  it  may  be,  let  not  the  fruit  of  life  cease. 

Dry  wreaths  drop  their  petals, 

their  stalks  are  woven  in  baskets, 
To-day  we  take  the  great  breath  of  lovers, 

to-morrow  fate  shuts  us  in. 

Though  you  give  all  your  kisses 

you  give  but  a  few." 

Nor  can  I  shift  my  pains  to  other 

Hers  will  I  be  dead, 
If  she  confers  such  nights  upon  me, 

long  is  my  life,  long  in  years, 
If  she  give  me  many, 

God  am  I  for  the  time. 


VIII 

JOVE,  be  merciful  to  that  unfortunate  woman 
Or  an  ornamental  death  will  be  held  to  your 
debit, 
The  time  is  come,  the  air  heaves  in  torridity, 

The  dry  earth  pants  against  the  canicular  heat, 
But  this  heat  is  not  the  root  of  the  matter: 

She  did  not  respect  all  the  gods; 

Such   derelictions   have   destroyed   other   young   ladies 
aforetime, 

And  what  they  swore  in  the  cupboard 

wind  and  wave  scattered  away. 

Was  Venus  exacerbated  by  the  existence  of  a  comparable 
equal? 

Is  the  ornamental  goddess  full  of  envy? 
[25] 


Have  you  con  temp  ted  Juno's  Pelasgian  temples, 
Have  you  denied  Pallas  good  eyes? 

Or  is  it  my  tongue  that  wrongs  you 

with  perpetual  ascription  of  graces? 

There  comes,  it  seems,  and  at  any  rate 

through  perils,  (so  many)  and  of  a  vexed  life, 

The  gentler  hour  of  an  ultimate  day. 

lo  mooed  the  first  years  with  averted  head, 

And  now  drinks  Nile  water  like  a  god, 
Ino  in  her  young  days  fled  pellmell  out  of  Thebes, 
Andromeda  was  offered  to  a  sea-serpent 

and  respectably  married  to  Perseus, 
Callisto,  disguised  as  a  bear, 

wandered  through  the  Arcadian  prairies 
While  a  black  veil  was  over  her  stars, 
What  if  your  fates  are  accelerated; 

your  quiet  hour  put  forward, 
You  may  find  interment  pleasing, 

You  will  say  that  you  succumbed  to  a  danger  identical, 

charmingly  identical,  with  Semele's, 
And  believe  it,  and  she  also  will  believe  it, 

being  expert  from  experience, 

And  amid  all  the  gloried  and  storied  beauties  of  Maeonia 
There  shall  be  none  in  a  better  seat,  not  one 
denying  your  prestige, 

Now  you  may  bear  fate's  stroke  unperturbed, 

Or  Jove,  harsh  as  he  is,  may  turn  aside  your 

ultimate  day, 

Old  lecher,  let  not  Juno  get  wind  of  the  matter, 
Or  perhaps  Juno  herself  will  go  under, 

If  the  young  lady  is  taken? 

There  will  be,  in  any  case,  a  stir  on  Olympus. 


IX 


THE    twisted    rhombs    ceased    their    clamour    of 
accompaniment; 
The  scorched  laurel  lay  in  the  fire-dust; 
The  moon  still  declined  to  descend  out  of  heaven, 

But  the  black  omnious  owl  hoot  was  audible. 

And  one  raft  bears  our  fates 

on  the  veiled  lake  toward  Avernus 
Sails  spread  on  Cerulean  waters,  I  would  shed  tears  for 

two; 
I  shall  live,  if  she  continue  in  life, 

If  she  dies,  I  shall  go  with  her. 
Great  Zeus,  save  the  woman, 

or  she  will  sit  before  your  feet  in  a  veil, 
and  tell  out  the  long  list  of  her  troubles. 


Persephone  and  Dis,  Dis,  have  mercy  upon  her, 
There  are  enough  women  in  hell, 

quite  enough  beautiful  women, 
lope,  and  Tyro,  and  Pasiphae,  and  the  formal  girls  of 

Achaia, 

And  out  of  Troad,  and  from  the  Campania, 
Death  has  its  tooth  in  the  lot, 

Avernus  lusts  for  the  lot  of  them, 
Beauty  is  not  eternal,  no  man  has  perennial  fortune, 
Slow  foot,  or  swift  foot,  death  delays  but  for  a  season. 

[27] 


My  light,  light  of  my  eyes, 

you  are  escaped  from  great  peril, 
Go  back  to  Great  Dian's  dances  bearing  suitable  gifts, 
Pay  up  your  vow  of  night  watches 

to  Dian  goddess  of  virgins, 
And  unto  me  also  pay  debt: 

the  ten  nights  of  your  company  you  have  promised 
me. 


X 


LIGHT,  light  of  my  eyes,  at  an  exceeding  late  hour 
I  was  wandering, 
And  intoxicated, 

and  no  servant  was  leading  me, 

And  a  minute  crowd  of  small  boys  came  from  opposite, 

I  do  not  know  what  boys, 
And  I  am  afraid  of  numerical  estimate, 
And  some  of  them  shook  little  torches, 

and  others  held  onto  arrows, 
And  the  rest  laid  their  chains  upon  me, 

and  they  were  naked,  the  lot  of  them, 
And  one  of  the  lot  was  given  to  lust. 

"  That    incensed    female    has    consigned    him    to    our 

pleasure." 

So  spoke.    And  the  noose  was  over  my  neck. 
And  another  said  "  Get  him  plumb  in  the  middle! 

"Shove  along  there,  shove  along!" 
And  another  broke  in  upon  this: 

"  He  thinks  that  we  are  not  gods." 
[28] 


"  And  she  has  been  waiting  for  the  scoundrel, 

and  in  a  new  Sidonian  night  cap, 
And  with  more  than  Arabian  odours, 

God  knows  where  he  has  been, 
She  could  scarcely  keep  her  eyes  open 

enter  that  much  for  his  bail. 
Get  along  now!  " 

We  were  coming  near  to  the  house, 

and  they  gave  another  yank  to  my  cloak, 
And  it  was  morning,  and  I  wanted  to  see  if  she  was 

alone,  and  resting, 
And  Cynthia  was  alone  in  her  bed. 

I  was  stupefied. 
I  had  never  seen  her  looking  so  beautiful 

No,  not  when  she  was  tunick'd  in  purple. 

Such  aspect  was  presented  to  me,  me  recently  emerged 

from  my  visions, 
You  will  observe  that  pure  form  has  its  value. 

'll  You  are  a  very  early  inspector  of  mistresses. 
"  Do  you  think  I  have  adopted  your  habits?  " 

There  were  upon  the  bed  no  signs  of  a  volup 
tuous  encounter, 

No  signs  of  a  second  incumbent. 

She  continued: 

"  No  incubus  has  crushed  his  body  against  me, 
"  Though  spirits  are  celebrated  for  adultery. 
"  And  I  am  going  to  the  temple  of  Vesta  ..." 

and  so  on. 

Since  that  day  I  have  had  no  pleasant  nights. 

[29] 


T 


XI 

I 

HE  harsh  acts  of  your  levity! 

Many  and  many. 
I  am  hung  here,  a  scare-crow  for  lovers. 


Escape!     There  is,  O  Idiot,  no  escape, 
Flee  if  you  like  into  Ranaus, 

desire  will  follow  you  thither. 

Though  you  heave  into  the  air  upon  the  gilded  Pegasean 
back, 

Though  you  had  the  feathery  sandals  of  Perseus 
To  lift  you  up  through  split  air, 

The  high  tracks  of  Hermes  would  not  afford 
you  shelter. 

Amor  stands  upon  you,  Love  drives  upon  lovers, 

a  heavy  mass  on  free  necks. 

It  is  our  eyes  you  flee,  not  the  city, 

You  do  nothing,  you  plot  inane  schemes  against  me, 

Languidly  you  stretch  out  the  snare 

with  which  I  am  already  familiar, 

And  yet  again,  and  newly  rumour  strikes  on  my  ears, 

Rumours  of  you  throughout  the  city, 

and  no  good  rumour  among  them. 

[30] 


"You  should  not  believe  hostile  tongues, 

"  Beauty  is  slander's  cock-shy, 
"  All  lovely  women  have  known  this," 

"  Your  glory  is  not  outblotted  by  venom," 
"  Phoebus  our  witness,  your  hands  are  unspotted," 

A  foreign  lover  brought  down  Helen's  kingdom. 

and  she  was  led  back,  living,  home; 
The  Cytharean  brought  low  by  Mars'  lechery 

reigns  in  respectable  heavens,  .  .  . 

Oh,  oh,  and  enough  of  this, 

by  dew-spread  caverns, 
The  Muses  clinging  to  the  mossy  ridges; 

to  the  ledge  of  the  rocks; 
Zeus'  clever  rapes,  in  the  old  days, 

combusted  Semele's,  of  lo  strayed. 
Of  how  the  bird  flew  from  Trojan  rafters, 

Ida  has  lain  with  a  shepherd,  she  has  slept 
between  sheep. 

Even  there,  no  escape 

Not  the  Hyrcanian  seabord,  not  in  seeking  the  shore  of 
Eos. 

All  things  are  forgiven  for  one  night  of  your  games.  .  .  . 
Though  you  walk  in  the  Via  Sacra,  with  a  peacock's  tail 
for  a  fan. 


XII 

WHO,  who  will  be  the  next  man  to  entrust  his 
girl  to  a  friend? 
Love  interferes  with  fidelities; 
The  gods  have  brought  shame  on  their  relatives; 

Each  man  wants  the  pomegranate  for  himself; 
Amiable  and  harmonious  people  are  pushed  incontinent 

into  duels, 
A  Trojan  and  adulterous  person  came  to  Menelaus  under 

the  rites  of  hospitiumi, 
And  there  was  a  case  in  Colchis,  Jason  and  that  woman 

in  Colchis; 
And  besides,  Lynceus, 

you  were  drunk. 

Could  you  endure  such  promiscuity? 

She  was  not  renowned  for  fidelity; 
But  to  jab  a  knife  in  my  vitals,  to  have  passed  on  a  swig 

of  poison, 

Preferable,  my  dear  boy,  my  dear  Lynceus, 
Comrade,  comrade  of  my  life,  of  my  purse,  of  my  person  ;v> 
But  in  one  bed,  in  one  bed  alone,  my  dear  Lynceus 

I  deprecate  your  attendance; 
I  would  ask  a  like  boon  of  Jove. 

And  you  write  of  Achelous,  who  contended  with  Hercules, 
You  write  of  Adrastus'  horses  and  the  funeral  rites  of 

Achenor, 
And  you  will  not  leave  off  imitating  Aeschylus. 

Though  you  make  a  hash  of  Antimachus, 
You  think  you  are  going  to  do  Homer. 

And  still  a  girl  scorns  the  gods, 

[32] 


Of  all  these  young  women 

not  one  has  enquired  the  cause  of  the  world, 
Nor  the  modus  of  lunar  eclipses 

Nor  whether  there  be  any  patch  left  of  us 
After  we  cross  the  infernal  ripples, 

nor  if  the  thunder  fall  from  predestination; 
Nor  anything  else  of  importance. 

Upon  the  Actian  marshes  Virgil  is  Phoebus'  chief  of 
police, 

He  can  tabulate  Caesar's  great  ships. 
He  thrills  to  Ilian  arms, 

He  shakes  the  Trojan  weapons  of  Aeneas, 
And  casts  stores  on  Lavinian  beaches. 

Make  way,  ye  Roman  authors, 

clear  the  street  O  ye  Greeks, 
For  a  much  larger  Iliad  is  in  the  course  of  construction 

(and  to  Imperial  order) 
Clear  the  streets  O  ye  Greeks! 

And  you  also  follow  him  "neath  Phrygian  pine  shade: 
Thyrsis  and  Daphnis  upon  whittled  reeds, 

And  how  ten  sins  can  corrupt  young  maidens; 
Kids  for  a  bribe  and  pressed  udders, 

Happy  selling  poor  loves  for  cheap  apples. 

Tityrus  might  have  sung  the  same  vixen; 

Corydon  tempted  Alexis, 
Head  farmers  do  likewise,  and  lying  weary  amid  their 

oats 
They  get  praise  from  tolerant  Hamadryads." 

[33] 


Go  on,  to  Ascraeus'  prescription,  the  ancient, 

respected,  Wordsworthian: 
"  A  flat  field  for  rushes,  grapes  grow  on  the  slope." 

And  behold  me,  small  fortune  left  in  my  house. 

Me,  who  had  no  general  for  a  grandfather! 
I  shall  triumph  among  young  ladies  of  indeterminate 

character, 
My  talent  acclaimed  in  their  banquets, 

I  shall  be  honoured  with  yesterday's  wreaths. 
And  the  god  strikes  to  the  marrow. 

Like  a  trained  and  performing  tortoise, 
I  would  make  verse  in  your   fashion,  if  she  should 

command  it, 
With  her  husband  asking  a  remission  of  sentence, 

And  even  this  infamy  would  not  attract  numer 
ous  readers 

Were  there  an  erudite  or  violent  passion, 
For  the  nobleness  of  the  populace  brooks  nothing  below 

its  own  altitude. 
One  must  have  resonance,  resonance  and  sonority  .  .  . 

like  a  goose. 

Varro  sang  Jason's  expedition, 

Varro,  of  his  great  passion  Leucadia, 
There  is  song  in  the  parchment;    Catullus  the  highly 

indecorous, 

Of  Lesbia,  known  above  Helen; 
And  in  the  dyed  pages  of  Calvus, 

Calvus  mourning  Quintilia, 
And  but  now  Gallus  had  sung  of  Lycoris. 

Fair,  fairest  Lycoris  — 
The  waters  of  Styx  poured  over  the  wound: 
And  now  Propertius  of  Cynthia,  taking  his  stand  among 

these.  r       , 

[34] 


W 


LANGUE    D'OC 

Alba 

'HEN  the  nightingale  to  his  mate 
Sings  day-long  and  night  late 
My  love  and  I  keep  state 
In  bower, 
In  flower, 

'Till  the  watchman  on  the  tower 
Cry: 

"  Up!     Thou  rascal,  Rise, 
I  see  the  white 
Light 
And  the  night 

Flies." 
I 

Compleynt  of  a  gentleman  who  has  been  waiting  outside 
for  some  time 

OPLASMATOUR  and  true  celestial  light, 
Lord  powerful,  engirdled  all  with  might, 
Give  my  good-fellow  aid  in  fools'  despite 
Who  stirs  not  forth  this  night, 

And  day  comes  on. 

"  Sst!  my  good  fellow,  art  awake  or  sleeping? 
Sleep  thou  no  more.  I  see  the  star  upleaping 
That  hath  the  dawn  in  keeping, 

And  day  comes  on! 

"  Hi  1     Harry,  hear  me,  for  I  sing  aright 
Sleep  not  thou  now,  I  hear  the  bird  in  flight 
That  plaineth  of  the  going  of  the  night, 

And  day  comes  on! 

[35] 


"  Come  now!     Old  swenkin!     Rise  up  from  thy  bed, 
I  see  the  signs  upon  the  welkin  spread, 
If  thou  come  not,  the  cost  be  on  thy  head. 

And  day  comes  onl 

"  And  here  I  am  since  going  down  of  sun, 
And  pray  to  God  that  is  St.  Mary's  son, 
To  bring  thee  safe  back,  my  companion. 

And  day  comes  on. 

"  And  thou  out  here  beneath  the  porch  of  stone 
Badest  me  to  see  that  a  good  watch  was  done, 
And  now  thou'lt  none  of  me,  and  wilt  have  none 

Of  song  of  mine." 

(Bass  voice  from  within.) 

"  Wait,  my  good  fellow.    For  such  joy  I  take 
With  her  venust  and  noblest  to  my  make 
To  hold  embraced,  and  will  not  her  forsake 
For  yammer  of  the  cuckold, 

Though  day  break." 

(Girart  Bornello.) 

II 

Avril 

WHEN  the  springtime  is  sweet 
And  the  birds  repeat 
Their  new  song  in  the  leaves, 
'Tis  meet 
A  man  go  where  he  will. 

But  from  where  my  heart  is  set 

No  message  I  get; 

My  heart  all  wakes  and  grieves; 

Defeat 

Or  luck,  I  must  have  my  fill. 

[36] 


Our  love  comes  out 

Like  the  branch  that  turns  about 

On  the  top  of  the  hawthorne, 

With  frost  and  hail  at  night 

Suffers  despite 

'Till  the  sun  come,  and  the  green  leaf  on  the  bough. 

I  remember  the  young  day 

When  we  set  strife  away, 

And  she  gave  me  such  gesning, 

Her  love  and  her  ring: 

God  grant  I  die  not  by  any  man's  stroke 

'Till  I  have  my  hand  'neath  her  cloak. 

I  care  not  for  their  clamour 

Who  have  come  between  me  and  my  charmer, 

For  I  know  how  words  run  loose, 

Big  talk  and  little  use. 

Spoilers  of  pleasure, 

We  take  their  measure. 

(Guilhem  de  Peitieu.) 


Ill 


Descant  on  a  Theme  by  Cerclamon 

WHEN  the  sweet  air  goes  bitter, 
And  the  cold  birds  twitter 
Where  the  leaf  falls  from  the  twig, 
I  sough  and  sing 

that  Love  goes  out 
Leaving  me  no  power  to  hold  him. 

[37] 


Of  love  I  have  naught 

Save  troubles  and  sad  thought, 

And  nothing  is  grievous 

as  I  desirous, 
Wanting  only  what 
No  man  can  get  or  has  got. 

With  the  noblest  that  stands  in  men's  sight, 
If  all  the  world  be  in  despite 

I  care  not  a  glove. 

Where  my  love  is,  there  is  a  glitter  of  sun; 
God  give  me  life,  and  let  my  course  run 

'Till  I  have  her  I  love 

To  lie  with  and  prove. 

I  do  not  live,  nor  cure  me, 

Nor  feel  my  ache  —  great  as  it  is, 

For  love  will  give 

me  no  respite, 
Nor  do  I  know  when  I  turn  left  or  right 

nor  when  I  go  out. 
For  in  her  is  all  my  delight 
And  all  that  can  save  me. 

I  shake  and  burn  and  quiver 
From  love,  awake  and  in  swevyn, 
Such  fear  I  have  she  deliver 

me  not  from  pain, 

Who  know  not  how  to  ask  her; 

Who  can  not. 

Two  years,  three  years  I  seek 
And  though  I  fear  to  speak  out, 

Still  she  must  know  it. 
[38] 


If  she  won't  have  me  now,  Death  is  my  portion, 
Would  I  had  died  that  day 
I  came  into  her  sway. 

God!     How  softly  this  kills! 

When  her  love  look  steals  on  me. 

Killed  me  she  has,  I  know  not  how  it  was, 

For  I  would  not  look  on  a  woman. 


Joy  I  have  none,  if  she  make  me  not  mad 

Or  set  me  quiet,  or  bid  me  chatter. 
Good  is  it  to  me  if  she  flout 

Or  turn  me  inside  out,  and  about. 

My  ill  doth  she  turn  sweet. 
How  swift  it  is. 

For  I  am  traist  and  loose, 

I  am  true,  or  a  liar, 

All  vile,  or  all  gentle, 

Or  shaking  between, 

as  she  desire, 
I,  Cerclamon,  sorry  and  glad, 

The  man  whom  love  had 

and  has  ever; 

Alas !  who'er  it  please  or  pain, 

She  can  me  retain. 


I  am  gone  from  one  joy, 
From  one  I  loved  never  so  much, 

She  by  one  touch 

Reft  me  away; 

So  doth  bewilder  me 

I  can  not  say  my  say 

nor  my  desire, 

[39] 


And  when  she  looks  on  me 
It  seems  to  me 

I  lose  all  wit  and  sense. 

The  noblest  girls  men  love 

'Gainst  her  I  prize  not  as  a  glove 

Worn  and  old. 

Though  the  whole  world  run  rack 

And  go  dark  with  cloud, 

Light  is 

Where  she  stands, 

And  a  clamour  loud 

in  my  ears. 


IV 
Vergier 

IN  orchard  under  the  hawthorne 
She  has  her  lover  till  morn, 
Till  the  traist  man  cry  out  to  warn 
Them.    God  how  swift  the  night, 

And  day  comes  on. 

O  Plasmatour,  that  thou  end  not  the  night, 
Nor  take  my  beloved  from  my  sight, 
Nor  I,  nor  tower-man,  look  on  daylight, 
Tore  God,  How  swift  the  night, 

And  day  comes  on. 

"  Lovely  thou  art,  to  hold  me  close  and  kisst, 
Now  cry  the  birds  out,  in  the  meadow  mist, 
Despite  the  cuckold,  do  thou  as  thou  list, 
So  swiftly  goes  the  night 

And  day  comes  on. 
[40] 


"  My  pretty  boy,  make  we  our  play  again 
Here  in  the  orchard  where  the  birds  complain, 
Till  the  traist  watcher  his  song  unrein, 
Ah  God!     How  swift  the  night 

And  day  comes  on." 

"  Out  of  the  wind  that  blows  from  her, 
That  dancing  and  gentle  is  and  Thereby  pleasanter, 
Have  I  drunk  a  draught,  sweeter  than  scent  of 

myrrh. 
Ah  God!    How  swift  the  night. 

And  day  comes  on." 

Venust  the  lady,  and  none  lovelier, 
For  her  great  beauty,  many  men  look  on  her, 
Out  of  my  love  will  her  heart  not  stir. 
By  God,  how  swift  the  night. 

And  day  comes  on. 


Canzon 

I  ONLY,  and  who  elrische  pain  support 
Know  out  love's  heart  o'erborne  by  overlove, 
For  my  desire  that  is  so  firm  and  straight 
And  unchanged  since  I  found  her  in  my  sight 
And  unturned  since  she  came  within  my  glance, 
That  far  from  her  my  speech  springs  up  aflame; 
Near  her  comes  not.    So  press  the  words  to  arrest  it. 

I  am  blind  to  others,  and  their  retort 

I  hear  not.    In  her  alone,  I  see,  move, 

Wonder.  .  .  .  And  jest  not.    And  the  words  dilate 

Not  truth;  but  mouth  speaks  not  the  heart  outright: 

[41] 


I  could  not  walk  roads,  flats,  dales,  hills,  by  chance, 
To  find  charm's  sum  within  one  single  frame 
As  God  hath  set  in  her  t 'assay  and  test  it. 

And  I  have  passed  in  many  a  goodly  court 

To  find  in  hers  more  charm  than  rumour  thereof  .  , 

In  solely  hers.    Measure  and  sense  to  mate, 

Youth  and  beauty  learned  in  all  delight, 

Gentrice  did  nurse  her  up,  and  so  advance 

Her  fair  beyond  all  reach  of  evil  fame, 

To  clear  her  worth,  no  shadow  hath  oppresst  it. 

Her  contact  flats  not  out,  falls  not  off  short.  .  .  . 

Let  her,  I  pray,  guess  out  the  sense  hereof 

For  never  will  it  stand  in  open  prate 

Until  my  inner  heart  stand  in  daylight, 

So  that  heart  pools  him  when  her  eyes  entrance, 

As  never  doth  the  Rhone,  fulled  and  untame, 

Pool,  where  the  freshest  tumult  hurl  to  crest  it. 

Flimsy  another's  joy,  false  and  distort, 
No  paregale  that  she  springs  not  above  .  .  . 
Her  love-touch  by  none  other  mensurate. 
To  have  it  not?    Alas!    Though  the  pains  bite 
Deep,  torture  is  but  galzeardy  and  dance, 
For  in  my  thought  my  lust  hath  touched  his  aim. 
God!    Shall  I  get  no  more!    No  fact  to  best  it! 

No  delight  I,  from  now,  in  dance  or  sport, 
Nor  will  these  toys  a  tinkle  of  pleasure  prove, 
Compared  to  her,  whom  no  loud  profligate 
Shall  leak  abroad  how  much  she  makes  my  right. 
Is  this  too  much?    If  she  count  not  mischance 

[42] 


What  I  have  said,  then  no.    But  if  she  blame, 
Then  tear  ye  out  the  tongue  that  hath  expresst  it. 

The  song  begs  you:  Count  not  this  speech  ill  chance, 
But  if  you  count  the  song  worth  your  acclaim, 
Arnaut  cares  lyt  who  praise  or  who  contest  it. 

(Arnaut  Daniel,  a.  d.  about  1190.) 


[43] 


MOEURS   CONTEMPORAINES 


Mr.  Styrax  i 

MR.   HECATOMB   STYRAX,   the   owner   of   a 
large  estate 
and  of  large  muscles, 
A  "  blue  "  and  a  climber  of  mountains,  has  married 

at  the  age  of  28, 
He  being  at  that  age  a  virgin, 
The  term  "  virgo"  being  made  male  in  mediaeval  latinity; 

His  ineptitudes 

Have  driven  his  wife  from  one  religious  excess  to  another. 
She  has  abandoned  the  vicar 
For  he  was  lacking  in  vehemence; 
She  is  now  the  high-priestess 
Of  a  modern  and  ethical  cult, 

And  even  now  Mr.  Styrax 
Does  not  believe  in  aesthetics. 


His  brother  has  taken  to  gipsies, 

But  the  son-in-law  of  Mr.  H.  Styrax 

Objects  to  perfumed  cigarettes. 

In  the  parlance  of  Niccolo  Macchiavelli, 
"Thus  things  proceed  in  their  circle"; 
And  thus  the  empire  is  maintained. 


[44] 


II 

Clara 

AT  sixteen  she  was  a  potential  celebrity 
With  a  distaste  for  caresses. 
She  now  writes  to  me  from  a  convent; 
Her  life  is  obscure  and  troubled; 
Her  second  husband  will  not  divorce  her; 
Her  mind  is,  as  ever,  uncultivated, 
And  no  issue  presents  itself. 
She  does  not  desire  her  children, 
Or  any  more  children. 
Her  ambition  is  vague  and  indefinite, 
She  will  neither  stay  in,  nor  come  out. 


Ill 

Soiree 

UPON  learning  that  the  mother  wrote  verses, 
And  that  the  father  wrote  verses, 
And  that  the  youngest  son  was  in  a  publisher's 

office, 
And  that  the  friend  of  the  second  daughter 

was  undergoing  a  novel, 
The  young  American  pilgrim 
Exclaimed : 

"This  is  a  darn'd  clever  bunch!  " 


[45] 


IV 

Sketch  48  b.  ii 

AT  the  age  of  27 
Its  home  mail  is  still  opened  by  its  maternal  parent 
And  its  office  mail  may  be  opened  by 

its  parent  of  the  opposite  gender. 
It  is  an  officer, 

and  a  gentleman, 

and  an  architect. 


"  Nodier  raconte 


AT  a  friend  of  my  wife's  there  is  a  photograph, 
A  faded,  pale,  brownish  photograph, 
Of  the  times  when  the  sleeves  were  large, 
Silk,  stiff  and  large  above  the  lacertus, 
That  is;,  the  upper  arm, 
And  decollete.  .  .  . 

It  is  a  lady, 
She  sits  at  a  harp, 
Playing, 

And  by  her  left  foot,  in  a  basket, 

Is  an  infant,  aged  about  14  months, 

The  infant  beams  at  the  parent, 

The  parent  re-beams  at  its  offspring. 

The  basket  is  lined  with  satin, 

There  is  a  satin-like  bow  on  the  harp. 

[46] 


And  in  the  home  of  the  novelist 
There  is  a  satin-like  bow  on  an  harp. 

You  enter  and  pass  hall  after  hall, 

Conservatory  follows  conservatory, 

Lilies  lift  their  white  symbolical  cups, 

Whence  their  symbolical  pollen  has  been  excerpted, 

Near  them  I  noticed  an  harp 

And  the  blue  satin  ribbon, 

And  the  copy  of  "Hatha  Yoga" 

And  the  neat  piles  of  unopened,  unopening  books, 

And  she  spoke  to  me  of  the  monarch, 
And  of  the  purity  of  her  soul. 


VI 

Stele 


A 


FTER  years  of  continence 

he  hurled  himself  into  a  sea  of  six  women. 
Now,  quenched  as  the  brand  of  Meleagar, 

he  lies  by  the  poluphloisboious  sea-coast. 

Tlo\v<f>\oi(r/3oLO  OaXacrcrrjs. 
SISTE  VIATOR. 


[47] 


VII 

/  Vecchii 


T 


I  HEY  will  come  no  more, 

The  old  men  with  beautiful  manners. 


II  etait  comme  un  tout  petit  gargon 
With  his  blouse  full  of  apples 
And  sticking  out  all  the  way  round; 
Blagueur!  "  Con  gli  occhi  onesti  e  tardi," 

And  he  said: 

"  Oh!     Abelard,"  as  if  the  topic 
Were  much  too  abstruse  for  his  comprehension, 
And  he  talked  about  "  the  Great  Mary," 
And  said:  "  Mr.  Pound  is  shocked  at  my  levity," 
When  it  turned  out  he  meant  Mrs.  Ward. 

And  the  other  was  rather  like  my  bust  by  Gaudier, 

Or  like  a  real  Texas  colonel, 

He  said:  "  Why  flay  dead  horses? 

"  There  was  once  a  man  called  Voltaire." 

And  he  said  they  used  to  cheer  Verdi, 

In  Rome,  after  the  opera, 

And  the  guards  couldn't  stop  them, 

And  that  was  an  anagram  for  Vittorio 

Emanuele  Re  D'  Italia, 

And  the  guards  couldn't  stop  them. 

Old  men  with  beautiful  manners, 
Sitting  in  the  Row  of  a  morning; 
Walking  on  the  Chelsea  Embankment. 

[48] 


VIII 

Ritratto 

AND  she  said: 
"  You   remember   Mr.   Lowell, 
"  He  was  your  ambassador  here?  " 
And  I  said:  "  That  was  before  I  arrived." 
And  she  said: 

"  He  stomped  into  my  bedroom.  .  . 
(By  that  time  she  had  got  on  to  Browning.) 
"...  stomped  into  my  bedroom.  .  .  . 
"And  said:  '  Do  I, 
"  '  I  ask  you,  Do  I 

"  'Care  too  much  for  society  dinners?  ' 
"  And  I  wouldn't  say  that  he  didn't. 
"  Shelley  used  to  live  in  this  house." 

She  was  a  very  old  lady, 
I  never  saw  her  again. 


[49] 


HUGH    SELWYN    MAUBERLEY 

(LIFE   AND    CONTACTS) 

"  VOCAT   ^ESTUS    IN    UMBRAM  " 

Nemesianus  EC.  IV. 


ODE   POUR   L'ELECTION   DE  SON 
SEPULCHRE 


FOR  three  years,  out  of  key  with  his  time, 
He  strove  to  resuscitate  the  dead  art 
Of  poetry;  to  maintain  "  the  sublime  " 
In  the  old  sense.    Wrong  from  the  start  — 

No,  hardly  but,  seeing  he  had  been  born 

In  a  half  savage  country,  out  of  date; 

Bent  resolutely  on  wringing  lilies  from  the  acorn; 

Capaneus;  trout  for  factitious  bait; 


yap  rot  irdvO*,  ocr  'Ivu 
Caught  in  the  unstopped  ear; 
Giving  the  rocks  small  lee-way 
The  chopped  seas  held  him,  therefore,  that  year. 

His  true  Penelope  was  Flaubert, 
He  fished  by  obstinate  isles  ; 
Observed  the  elegance  of  Circe's  hair 
Rather  than  the  mottoes  on  sun-dials. 

Unaffected  by  "the  march  of  events," 

He  passed  from  men's  memory  in  Van  trentiesme 

De  son  eage;  the  case  presents 

No  adjunct  to  the  Muses'  diadem. 


[53] 


II 

THE  age  demanded  an  image 
Of  its  accelerated  grimace, 
Something  for  the  modern  stage, 
Not,  at  any  rate,  an  Attic  grace; 

Not,  not  certainly,  the  obscure  reveries 

Of  the  inward  gaze; 

Better  mendacities 

Than  the  classics  in  paraphrase! 

The  "  age  demanded  "  chiefly  a  mould  in  plaster, 
Made  with  no  loss  of  time, 
A  prose  kinema,  not,  not  assuredly,  alabaster 
Or  the  "  sculpture  "  of  rhyme. 


T 


Ill 

HE  tea-rose  tea-gown,  etc. 
Supplants  the  mousseline  of  Cos, 
The  pianola  "  replaces  " 
Sappho's  barbitos. 

Christ  follows  Dionysus, 
Phallic  and  ambrosial 
Made  way  for  macerations; 
Caliban  casts  out  Ariel. 

All  things  are  a  flowing, 
Sage  Heracleitus  says; 
But  a  tawdry  cheapness 
Shall  outlast  our  days. 

Even  the  Christian  beauty 
Defects  —  after  Samothrace; 
We  see  TO  KaXoV 
Decreed  in  the  market  place. 

[54] 


Faun's  flesh  is  not  to  us, 
Nor  the  saint's  vision. 
We  have  the  press  for  wafer; 
Franchise  for  circumcision. 

All  men,  in  law,  are  equals. 
Free  of  Peisistratus, 
We  choose  a  knave  or  an  eunuch 
To  rule  over  us. 


O  bright  Apollo, 


Oebv 


TIV    a^pa,  TIV    rpa)a,  TLVCL 

What  god,  man,  or  hero 

Shall  I  place  a  tin  wreath  upon! 


T 


IV 

HESE  fought  in  any  case, 

and  some  believing,  pro  domo,  in  any  case 


Some  quick  to  arm, 

some  for  adventure, 

some  from  fear  of  weakness, 

some  from  fear  of  censure, 

some  for  love  of  slaughter,  in  imagination, 

learning  later .     .     . 

some  in  fear,  learning  love  of  slaughter; 

Died  some  pro  patria,  non  dulce  non  et  decor  " . 

walked  eye-deep  in  hell 

believing  in  old  men's  lies,  then  unbelieving 

came  home,  home  to  a  lie, 

home  to  many  deceits, 

home  to  old  lies  and  new  infamy; 

[55]  " 


usury  age-old  and  age-thick 
and  liars  in  public  places. 

Daring  as  never  before,  wastage  as  never  before. 
Young  blood  and  high  blood, 
Fair  cheeks,  and  fine  bodies; 

fortitude  as  never  before 

frankness  as  never  before, 
disillusions  as  never  told  in  the  old  days, 
hysterias,  trench  confessions, 
laughter  out  of  dead  bellies. 


THERE  died  a  myriad, 
And  of  the  best,  among  them, 
For  an  old  bitch  gone  in  the  teeth, 
For  a  botched  civilization, 

Charm,  smiling  at  the  good  mouth, 
Quick  eyes  gone  under  earth's  lid, 

For  two  gross  of  broken  statues, 
For  a  few  thousand  battered  books. 


[56] 


YEUX    GLAUQUES 

GLADSTONE  was  still  respected, 
When  John  Ruskin  produced 
"  Kings'  Treasuries  ";  Swinburne 
And  Rossetti  still  abused. 

Foetid  Buchanan  lifted  up  his  voice 
When  that  faun's  head  of  hers 
Became  a  pastime  for 
Painters  and  adulterers. 

The  Burne-Jones  cartons 
Have  preserved  her  eyes; 
Still,  at  the  Tate,  they  teach 
Cophetua  to  rhapsodize; 

Thin  like  brook-water, 

With  a  vacant  gaze. 

The  English  Rubaiyat  was  still-born 

In  those  days. 

The  thin,  clear  gaze,  the  same 

Still  darts  out  faun-like  from  the  half-ruin'd  face, 

Questing  and  passive.  .  .  . 

"  Ah,  poor  Jenny's  case  "... 

Bewildered  that  a  world 
Shows  no  surprise 
At  her  last  maquero's 
Adulteries. 


is?] 


"SIENA  MI  FE';     DISFECEMI 
MAREMMA" 

AMONG  the  pickled  foetuses  and  bottled  bones, 
Engaged  in  perfecting  the  catalogue, 
I  found  the  last  scion  of  the 
Senatorial  families  of  Strasbourg,  Monsieur  Verog. 

For  two  hours  he  talked  of  Gallifet; 
Of  Dowson;  of  the  Rhymers'  Club; 
Told  me  how  Johnson  (Lionel)  died 
By  falling  from  a  high  stool  in  a  pub  .  .  . 

But  showed  no  trace  of  alcohol 

At  the  autopsy,  privately  performed  — 

Tissue  preserved  —  the  pure  mind 

Arose  toward  Newman  as  the  whiskey  warmed. 

Dowson  found  harlots  cheaper  than  hotels; 
Headlam  for  uplift;  Image  impartially  imbued 
With  raptures  for  Bacchus,  Terpsichore  and  the  Church. 
So  spoke  the  author  of  "  The  Dorian  Mood," 

M.  Verog,  out  of  step  with  the  decade, 
Detached  from  his  contemporaries, 
Neglected  by  the  young, 
Because  of  these  reveries. 

BRENNBAUM 

r  j  iHE  sky-like  limpid  eyes, 

I     The  circular  infant's  face, 
•^      The  stiffness  from  spats  to  collar 
Never  relaxing  into  grace; 

The  heavy  memories  of  Horeb,  Sinai  and  the  forty  years, 
Showed  only  when  the  daylight  fell 
Level  across  the  face 
Of  Brennbaum  "  The  Impeccable." 

[58] 


I 


MR      NIXON 

N  the  cream  gilded  cabin  of  his  steam  yacht 
Mr.  Nixon  advised  me  kindly,  to  advance  with  fewer 
Dangers  of  delay.    "  Consider 
"  Carefully  the  reviewer. 


"  I  was  as  poor  as  you  are; 

"  When  I  began  I  got,  of  course, 

"  Advance  on  royalties,  fifty  at  first,"  said  Mr.  Nixon, 

"  Follow  me,  and  take  a  column, 

"  Even  if  you  have  to  work  free. 

"  Butter  reviewers.    From  fifty  to  three  hundred 

"  I  rose  in  eighteen  months; 

"  The  hardest  nut  I  had  to  crack 

"  Was  Dr.  Dundas. 

"  I  never  mentioned  a  man  but  with  the  view 

"  Of  selling  my  own  works. 

"  The  tip's  a  good  one,  as  for  literature 

"It  gives  no  man  a  sinecure. 

"  And  no  one  knows,  at  sight  a  masterpiece. 
"And  give  up  verse,  my  boy, 
"There's  nothing  in  it." 

Likewise  a  friend  of  Bloughram's  once  advised  me: 
Don't  kick  against  the  pricks, 
Accept  opinion.    The  "  Nineties"  tried  your  game 
And  died,  there's  nothing  in  it. 


[59] 


BENEATH  the  sagging  roof 
The  stylist  has  taken  shelter, 
Unpaid,  uncelebrated, 
At  last  from  the  world's  welter 

Nature  receives  him, 

With  a  placid  and  uneducated  mistress 

He  exercises  his  talents 

And  the  soil  meets  his  distress. 

The  haven  from  sophistications  and  contentions 
Leaks  through  its  thatch ; 
He  offers  succulent  cooking; 
The  door  has  a  creaking  latch. 


C 


XI 


ONSERVATRIX  of  Milesien  " 

Habits  of  mind  and  feeling, 

Possibly.    But  in  Ealing 

With  the  most  bank-clerkly  of  Englishmen? 


No,  "  Milesian  "  is  an  exaggeration. 
No  instinct  has  survived  in  her 
Older  than  those  her  grandmother 
Told  her  would  fit  her  station. 


[60] 


XII 

DAPHNE  with  her  thighs  in  bark 
Stretches  toward  me  her  leafy  hands," — 
Subjectively.     In  the  stuffed-satin  drawing-room 
I  await  The  Lady  Valentine's  commands, 

Knowing  my  coat  has  never  been 
Of  precisely  the  fashion 
To  stimulate,  in  her, 
A  durable  passion; 

Doubtful,  somewhat,  of  the  value 

Of  well-gowned  approbation 

Of  literary  effort, 

But  never  of  The  Lady  Valentine's  vocation: 

Poetry,  her  border  of  ideas, 

The  edge,  uncertain,  but  a  means  of  blending 

With  other  strata 

Where  the  lower  and  higher  have  ending; 

A  hook  to  catch  the  Lady  Jane's  attention, 
A  modulation  toward  the  theatre, 
Also,  in  the  case  of  revolution, 
A  possible  friend  and  comforter. 

•         •         •         .         •         •         •         •        •        • 

Conduct,  on  the  other  hand,  the  soul 

"  Which  the  highest  cultures  have  nourished  " 

To  Fleet  St.  where 

Dr.  Johnson  flourished; 

Beside  this  thoroughfare 

The  sale  of  half -hose  has 

Long  since  superseded  the  cultivation 

Of  Pierian  roses. 

[61] 


ENVOI      (1919) 

GO,  dumb-born  book, 
Tell  her  that  sang  me  once  that  song  of  Lawes; 
Hadst  thou  but  song 
As  thou  hast  subjects  known, 
Then  were  there  cause  in  thee  that  should  condone 
Even  my  faults  that  heavy  upon  me  lie 
And  build  her  glories  their  longevity. 

Tell  her  that  sheds 

Such  treasure  in  the  air, 

Recking  naught  else  but  that  her  graces  give 

Life  to  the  moment, 

1  would  bid  them  live 

As  roses  might,  in  magic  amber  laid, 

Red  overwrought  with  orange  and  all  made 

One  substance  and  one  colour 

Braving  time. 

Tell  her  that  goes 

With  song  upon  her  lips 

But  sings  not  out  the  song,  nor  knows 

The  maker  of  it,  some  other  mouth, 

May  be  as  fair  as  hers, 

Might,  in  new  ages,  gain  her  worshippers, 

When  our  two  dusts  with  Waller's  shall  be  laid, 

Si j tings  on  si j tings  in  oblivion, 

Till  change  hath  broken  down 

All  things  save  Beauty  alone. 


[62] 


i92o     (MAUBERLEY) 

I 

TURNED  from  the  "  eau-forte 
Par  Jaquemart " 
To  the  strait  head 
Of  Messalina: 

"  His  true  Penelope 
Was  Flaubert," 
And  his  tool 
The  engraver's. 

Firmness, 

Not  the  full  smile, 
His  art,  but  an  art 
In  profile; 

Colourless 
Pier  Francesca, 
Pisanello  lacking  the  skill 
To  forge  Achaia. 


[63] 


II 


"  Qu'est  ce  qu'ils  savent  de  I 'amour,  et 
qu'est  ce  qu'ils  peuvent  comprendre? 

S'ils  ne  comprennent  pas  la  poesie, 
s'ils  ne  sentent  pas  la  musique,  qu'est  ce 
qu'ils  peuvent  comprendre  de  cette  pas 
sion  en  comparaison  avec  laquelle  la  rose 
est  grossiere  et  le  parfum  des  violettes  un 
tonnerre?  "  CAID  ALI 

FOR  three  years,  diabolus  in  the  scale, 
He  drank  ambrosia, 
All  passes,  ANANGKE  prevails, 
Came  end,  at  last,  to  that  Arcadia.  , 

He  had  moved  amid  her  phantasmagoria, 
Amid  her  galaxies, 
NUKTIS  "AGALMA 


Drifted  ....  drifted  precipitate, 
Asking  time  to  be  rid  of  .... 
Of  his  bewilderment;  to  designate 
His  new  found  orchid.  .  .  . 

To  be  certain  ....  certain  .... 

(Amid  aerial  flowers)  .  .  time  for  arrangements 

Drifted  on 

To  the  final  estrangement; 

[64] 


Unable  in  the  supervening  blankness 
To  sift  TO  AGATHON  from  the  chaff 
Until  he  found  his  seive  .... 
Ultimately,  his  seismograph: 

-  Given  that  is  his  "fundamental  passion  " 
This  urge  to  convey  the  relation 
Of  eye-lid  and  cheek-bone 
By  verbal  manifestations; 

To  present  the  series 

Of  curious  heads  in  medallion  — 

He  had  passed,  inconscient,  full  gaze, 
The  wide-banded  irises 
And  botticellian  sprays  implied 
In  their  diastasis; 

Which  ansesthesis,  noted  a  year  late, 
And  weighed,  revealed  his  great  affect, 
(Orchid),  mandate 
Of  Eros,  a  retrospect. 


Mouths  biting  empty  air, 
The  still  stone  dogs, 
Caught  in  metamorphosis,  were 
Left  him  as  epilogues. 


[65] 


-THE  AGE  DEMANDED" 

VIDE    POEM    II.    PAGE  54 

this  agility  chance  found 
Him  of  all  men,  unfit 
As  the  red-beaked  steeds  of 
The  Cythersean  for  a  chain  bit. 

The  glow  of  porcelain 
Brought  no  reforming  sense 
To  his  perception 
Of  the  social  inconsequence. 

Thus,  if  her  colour 

Came  against  his  gaze, 

Tempered  as  if 

It  were  through  a  perfect  glaze 

He  made  no  immediate  application 

Of  this  to  relation  of  the  state 

To  the  individual,  the  month  was  more  temperate 

Because  this  beauty  had  been. 


The  coral  isle,  the  lion-coloured  sand 
Burst  in  upon  the  porcelain  revery: 
Impetuous  troubling 
Of  his  imagery. 


Mildness,  amid  the  neo-Neitzschean  clatter, 
His  sense  of  graduations, 
Quite  out  of  place  amid 
Resistance  to  current  exacerbations, 

[66] 


Invitation,  mere  invitation  to  perceptivity 
Gradually  led  him  to  the  isolation 
Which  these  presents  place 
Under  a  more  tolerant,  perhaps,  examination. 

By  constant  elimination 
The  manifest  universe 
Yielded  an  armour 
Against  utter  consternation, 

A  Minoan  undulation, 

Seen,  we  admit,  amid  ambrosial  circumstances 

Strengthened  him  against 

The  discouraging  doctrine  of  chances, 

And  his  desire  for  survival, 

Faint  in  the  most  strenuous  moods, 

Became  an  Olympian  apathein 

In  the  presence  of  selected  perceptions. 

A  pale  gold,  in  the  aforesaid  pattern, 
The  unexpected  palms 
Destroying,  certainly,  the  artist's  urge, 
Left  him  delighted  with  the  imaginary 
Audition  of  the  phantasmal  sea-surge, 

Incapable  of  the  least  utterance  or  composition, 
Emendation,  conservation  of  the  "  better  tradition  " 
Refinement  of  medium,  elimination  of  superfluities, 
August  attraction  or  concentration. 

Nothing,  in  brief,  but  maudlin  confession 
Irresponse  to  human  aggression, 
Amid  the  precipitation,  down-float 


Of  insubstantial  manna, 
Lifting  the  faint  susurrus 
Of  his  subjective  hosannah. 

Ultimate  affronts  to  human  redundancies; 

Non-esteem  of  self-styled  "  his  betters  " 

Leading,  as  he  well  knew, 

To  his  final 

Exclusion  from  the  world  of  letters. 


s 


IV 


CATTERED  Moluccas 

Not  knowing,  day  to  day, 

The  first  day's  end,  in  the  next  noon; 

The  placid  water 

Unbroken  by  the  Simoon; 

Thick  foliage 

Placid  beneath  warm  suns, 

Tawn  fore-shores 

Washed  in  the  cobalt  of  oblivions; 

Or  through  dawn-mist 
The  grey  and  rose 
Of  the  juridical 
Flamingoes; 

A  consciousness  disjunct, 

Being  but  this  over  blotted 

Series 

Of  intermittences; 

[68] 


E 


Coracle  of  Pacific  voyages, 
The  unforecasted  beach: 
Then  on  an  oar 
Read  this: 

"  I  was 

And  I  no  more  exist; 

Here  drifted 

An  hedonist." 


MEDALLION 

UINI  in  porcelain! 
The  grand  piano 
Utters  a  profane 
Protest  with  her  clear  soprano. 


The  sleek  head  emerges 
From  the  gold-yellow  frock 
As  Anadyomene  in  the  opening 
Pages  of  Reinach. 

Honey-red,  closing  the  face-oval, 

A  basket-work  of  braids  which  seem  as  if  they  were 

Spun  in  King  Minos'  hall 

From  metal,  or  intractable  amber; 

The  face-oval  beneath  the  glaze, 
Bright  in  its  suave  bounding-line,  as, 
Beneath  half-watt  rays, 
The  eyes  turn  topaz. 


[69] 


CANTOS 


[71] 


THE   FOURTH   CANTO 

PALACE  in  smoky  light, 
Troy  but  a  heap  of  smouldering  boundary-stones, 
ANAXIFORMINGES!  Aurunculeia! 
Hear  me.    Cadmus  of  Golden  Prows! 
The  silver  mirrors  catch  the  bright  stones  and  flare, 
Dawn,  to  our  waking,  drifts  in  the  green  cool  light; 
Dew-haze  blurrs,  in  the  grass,  pale  ankles  moving. 
Beat,  beat,  whirr,  thud,  in  the  soft  turf  under  the  apple 

trees, 
Chores    nympharum,    goat-foot    with    the    pale    foot 

alternate; 

Crescent  of  blue-shot  waters,  green-gold  in  the  shallows, 
A  black  cock  crows  in  the  sea-foam; 

And  by  the  curved  carved  foot  of  the  couch, 

claw-foot  and  lion  head,  an  old  man  seated 
Speaking  in  the  low  drone:   .  .  . 

"Ityn! 

"  Et  ter  flebiliter.    Ityn,  Ityn! 
"  And  she  went  toward  the  window  and  cast  her  down, 

"  All  the  while,  the  while,  swallows  crying: 
"Ityn!" 

"  "  It  is  Cabestan's  heart  in  the  dish." 
"  "  It  is  Cabestan's  heart  in  the  dish? 
"  "  No  other  taste  shall  change  this.'' 

And  she  went  toward  the  window, 

the  slim  white  stone  bar 
Making  a  double  arch; 
Firm  even  fingers  held  to  the  firm  pale  stone; 

[73] 


Swung  for  a  moment, 

and  the  wind  out  of  Rhodez 
Caught  in  the  full  of  her  sleeve. 

.  .  .  the  swallows  crying: 
"Ityn!  Ityn!" 

Actaeon.  .  .  . 

And  a  valley, 

The  valley  is  thick  with  leaves,  with  leaves,  the  trees, 
The  sunlight  glitters,  glitters  a-top, 
Like  a  fish-scale  roof, 

Like  the  church-roof  in  Poictiers 
If  it  were  gold. 

Beneath  it,  beneath  it 

Not  a  ray,  not  a  slivver,  not  a  spare  disk  of  sunlight 
Flaking  the  black,  soft  water; 

Bathing  the  body  of  nymphs,  of  nymphs,  and  Diana, 
Nymphs,  white-gathered  about  her,  and  the  air,  air, 
Shaking,  air  alight  with  the  goddess 

fanning  their  hair  in  the  dark, 
Lifting,  lifting  and  waffing: 
Ivory  dipping  in  silver, 

Shadow'd,  o'ershadow'd 

Ivory  dipping  in  silver, 

Not  a  splotch,  not  a  lost  shatter  of  sunlight. 

Then  Actaeon:  Vidal, 

Vidal.    It  is  old  Vidal  speaking, 

stumbling  along  in  the  wood, 
Not  a  patch,  not  a  lost  shimmer  of  sunlight, 

the  pale  hair  of  the  goddess. 

The  dogs  leap  on  Actaeon, 

"Hither,  hither,  Actaeon," 
Spotted  stag  of  the  wood; 

[74] 


Gold,  gold,  a  sheaf  of  hair, 

Thick  like  a  wheat  swath, 
Blaze,  blaze  in  the  sun, 

The  dogs  leap  on  Actaeon. 

Stumbling,  stumbling  along  in  the  wood, 
Muttering,  muttering  Ovid: 

"  Pergusa  .  .  .  pool  .  .  pool  .  .  .  Gargaphia, 
"  Pool,  pool  of  Salmacis." 

The  empty  armour  shakes  as  the  cygnet  moves. 
Thus  the  light  rains,  thus  pours,  e  lo  soleils  plovil, 
The  liquid,  and  rushing  crystal 

whirls  up  the  bright  brown  sand. 
Ply  over  ply,  thin  glitter  of  water; 
Brook  film  bearing  white  petals 

("  The  pines  of  Takasago  grow  with  pines  of  Ise  ") 

"  Behold  the  Tree  of  the  Visages." 
The  forked  tips  flaming  as  if  with  lotus, 

Ply  over  ply 
The  shallow  eddying  fluid 

beneath  the  knees  of  the  gods. 

Torches  melt  in  the  glare 

Set  flame  of  the  corner  cook-stall, 
Blue  agate  casing  the  sky,  a  sputter  of  resin; 
The  saffron  sandal  petals  the  narrow  foot,  Hymenaeus! 

lo  Hymen,  lo  Hymenaee!  Aurunculeia! 
The  scarlet  flower  is  cast  on  the  blanch-white  stone, 
Armaracus,  Hill  of  Urania's  Son. 

Meanwhile  So-Gioku: 
"  This  wind,  sire,  is  the  king's  wind, 

this  wind  is  wind  of  the  palace 
Shaking  imperial  water- jets." 

And  Ran-Ti,  opening  his  collar: 


"  This  wind  roars  in  the  earth's  bag, 

it  lays  the  water  with  rushes; 
"  No  wind  is  the  king's  wind. 

Let  every  cow  keep  her  calf." 
"  This  wind  is  held  in  gauze  curtains " 

"  No  wind  is  the  king's.  .  ." 

The  camel  drivers  sit  in  the  turn  of  the  stairs, 

look  down  to  Ecbatan  of  plotted  streets, 

"  Danae !    Danae ! 

What  wind  is  the  king's?" 

Smoke  hangs  on  the  stream, 

The  peach-trees  shed  bright  leaves  in  the  water, 

Sound  drifts  in  the  evening  haze, 

The  barge  scrapes  at  the  ford. 

Gilt  rafters  above  black  water; 

three  steps  in  an  open  field 

Gray  stone-posts  leading  no  whither. 

The  Spanish  poppies  swim  in  an  air  of  glass. 

Pere  Henri  Jacques  still  seeks  the  sennin  on  Rokku. 

Polhonac, 

As  Gyges  on  Thracian  platter,  set  the  feast; 
Cabestan,  Terreus. 

It  is  Cabestan's  heart  in  the  dish. 
Vidal,  tracked  out  with  dogs  .  .  for  glamour  of  Loba; 
Upon  the  gilded  tower  in  Ecbatan 

Lay  the  god's  bride,  lay  ever 
Waiting  the  golden  rain. 

Et  saave! 

But  to-day,  Garonne  is  thick  like  paint,  beyond  Dorada> 
The  worm  of  the  Procession  bores  in  the  soup  of  the 

crowd 
The  blue  thin  voices  against  the  crash  of  the  crowd 

Et  "  Salve  regina." 

[76] 


In  trellises 

Wound  over  with  small  flowers,  beyond  Adige 
In  the  but  half-used  room,  thin  film  of  images, 

(by  Stefano) 

Age  of  unbodied  gods,  the  vitreous  fragile  images 
Thin  as  the  locust's  wing 
Haunting  the  mind  .  .  as  of  Guido  .  .  . 
Thin  as  the  locust's  wing.    The  Centaur's  heel 
Plants  in  the  earth-loam. 


[77] 


THE  FIFTH  CANTO 

GREAT  bulk,  huge  mass,  thesaurus; 
Ecbatan,  the  clock  ticks  and  fades  out; 
The  bride  awaiting  the  god's  touch;  Ecbatan, 
City  of  patterned  streets;  again  the  vision: 
Down  in  the  viae  stradae,  toga'd  the  crowd,  and  arm'd, 
Rushing  on  populous  business,  and  from  parapets 
Looked  down  —  I  looked,  and  thoughts  at  North 
Was  Egypt,  and  the  celestial  Nile,  blue-deep,  cutting  low 

barren  land, 
Old  men  and  camels  working  the  water-wheels; 

Measureless  seas  and  stars, 
lamblichus'  light,  the  souls  ascending, 
Sparks,  like  a  partridge  covey, 

From  the  "  ciocco,"  brand  struck  in  the  game, 
"  Et  omniformis": 

Air,  fire,  the  pale  soft  light. 
Topaz,  I  manage,  and  three  sorts  of  blue; 

but  on  the  barb  of  time. 
The  fire?  always,  and  the  vision  always, 
Ear  dull,  perhaps,  with  the  vision,  flitting 
And  fading  at  will.    Weaving  with  points  of  gold, 
Gold-yellow,  saffron  .  .  . 

the  Roman  shoe,  Aurunculeia's 
And  come  shuffling  feet,  and  cries  "  Da  nuces ! 
"  Nuces  "  praise  and  Hymenaeus  "  brings  the  girl  to  her 

map," 
Titter  of  sound  about  me,  always 

and  from  Hesperus  .  .  , 
Hush  of  the  older  song:  "  Fades  light  from  seacrest. 


"  And  in  Lydia  walks  with  pair'd  women 

"  Peerless  among  the  pairs,  and  that  once  in  Sardis 

"In  satieties  .  .  . 

"  Fades  the  light  from  the  sea,  and  many  things 
"  Are  set  abroad  and  brought  to  mind  of  thee," 
And  the  vinestocks  lie  untended,  new  leaves  come  to  the 

shoots. 

North  wind  nips  on  the  bough,  and  seas  in  heart 
Toss  up  chill  crests, 

And  the  vine  stocks  lie  untended 
And  many  things  are  set  abroad  and  brought  to  mind 
Of  thee,  Atthis,  unfruitful. 

The  talks  ran  long  in  the  night. 

And  from  Mauleon,  fresh  with  a  new  earned  grade, 
In  maze  of  approaching  rain-steps,  Poicebot  — 
The  air  was  full  of  women.      And  Savairic  Mauleon 
Gave  him  his  land  and  knight's  fee,  and  he  wed  the 

woman. 

Came  lust  of  travel  on  him,  of  r  ornery  a; 
And  out  of  England  a  knight  with  slow-lifting  eyelids 
Lei  jassa  jurar  a  del,  put  glamour  upon  her  ... 
And  left  her  an  eight  months  gone. 

Came  lust  of  woman  upon  him, 
Poicebot,  now  on  North  road  from  Spain 
(Sea-change,  a  grey  in  the  water) 

And  in  small  house  by  town's  edge 
Found  a  woman,  changed  and  familiar  face, 
Hard  night,  and  parting  at  morning. 

And  Pieire  won  the  singing, 
Song  or  land  on  the  throw,  Pieire  de  Maensac, 

and  was  dreitz  horn 

And  had  De  Tierci's  wife  and  with  the  war  they  made, 
Troy  in  Auvergnat. 

[79] 


While  Menelaus  piled  up  the  church  at  port 

He  kept  Tyndarida.    Dauphin  stood  with  de  Maensac. 

John  Borgia  is  bathed  at  last. 

(Clock- tick  pierces  the  vision) 

Tiber,  dark  with  the  cloak,  wet  cat,  gleaming  in  patches. 
Click  of  the  hooves,  through  garbage, 
Clutching  the  greasy  stone.    "  And  the  cloak  floated  " 
Slander  is  up  betimes. 

But  Varchi  of  Florence, 

Steeped  in  a  different  year,  and  pondering  Brutus, 
Then 

SIGA  MAL  AUTHIS  DEUTERON! 
"  Dog-eye!  !  "  (to  Alessandro) 

"  Whether    for    Love    of    Florence/'    Varchi 

leaves  it, 

Saying,  "  I  saw  the  man,  came  up  with  him  at  Venice, 
"  I,  one  wanting  the  facts, 
"  And  no  mean  labour. 

Or  for  a  privy  spite?  " 

Good  Varchi  leaves  it, 
But:  "  I  saw  the  man.    Se  pia? 
"  O  empia?    For  Lorenzaccio  had  thought  of  stroke  in 

the  open 

"But    uncertain     (for    the    Duke    went    never     un 
guarded)  .  .  . 

"  And  would  have  thrown  him  from  wall 
"  Yet  feared  this  might  not  end  him,  or  lest  Alessandro 
"  Know  not  by  whom  death  came, 

O  si  credesse 

"  If  when  the  foot  slipped,  when  death  came  upon  him, 
"  Lest  cousin  Duke  Alessandro  think  he  had  fallen  alone 
"  No  friend  to  aid  him  in  falling." 

Caina  attende. 
As  beneath  my  feet  a  lake,  was  ice  in  seeming. 

[so] 


And  all  of  this,  runs  Varchi,  dreamed  out  before  hand 
In  Perugia,  caught  in  the  star-maze  by  Del  Carmine, 
Cast  on  a  natal  paper,  set  with  an  exegesis,  told, 
All  told  to  Alessandro,  told  thrice  over, 
Who  held  his  death  for  a  doom. 
In  abuleia. 

But  Don  Lorenzino 
"  Whether  for  love  of  Florence  .  .  .  but: 

"  O  si  morisse,  credesse  caduto  da  se." 

SIGA,  SIGA! 

The  wet  cloak  floats  on  the  surface, 
Schiavoni,  caught  on  the  wood-barge, 
Gives  out  the  afterbirth,  Giovanni  Borgia 
Trails  out  no  more  at  night,  where  Barabello 
Prods  the  Pope's  elephant,  and  gets  no  crown,  where 

Mozarello 

Takes  the  Calabrian  roadway,  and  for  ending 
Is  smothered  beneath  a  mule, 

a  poet's  ending, 

Down  a  stale  well-hole,  oh  a  poet's  ending.    "  Sanazarro 
"  Alone  out  of  all  the  court  was  faithful  to  him  " 
For  the  gossip  of  Naples'  trouble  drifts  to  North, 
Fracas  tor    (lightning    was    midwife)    Cotta,    and    Ser 

D'Alviano, 

Al  poco  giorno  ed  al  gran  cerchio  d'ombra, 
Talk  the  talks  out  with  Navighero, 
Burner  of  yearly  Martials, 

(The  slavelet  is  mourned  in  vain) 
And  the  next  comer 

says  "  were  nine  wounds, 
"  Four  men,  white  horse  with  a  double  rider," 
The  hooves  clink  and  slick  on  the  cobbles  .  .  . 
Schiavoni  ...  the  cloak  floats  on  the  water, 

[81] 


"  Sink  the  thing,"  splash  wakes  Schiavoni; 
Tiber  catching  the  nap,  the  moonlit  velvet, 
Wet  cat,  gleaming  in  patches. 

"  Se  pia,"  Varchi, 
"  O  empia,  ma  risoluto 
"  E  terribile  deliberazione  " 

Both  sayings  run  in  the  wind, 
Ma  si  morisse! 


T 


THE  SIXTH  CANTO 

HE  tale  of  thy  deeds  Odysseus!  "  and  Tolosan 

Ground  rents,  sold  by  Guillaume/ninth  duke  of      - 

Aquitaine; 

Till  Louis  is  wed  with  Eleanor;  the  wheel  .  .  . 
("  Conrad,  the  wheel  turn^and  in  the  end  turns  ill  ")          p 
And  Acre  and  boy's  love  ...  for  her  uncle  was 
Commandant  at  Acre,  she  was  pleased  with  him; 
And  Louis,  French  King,  was  jealous/of  days  unshared  f 

This  pair  had  had  together  in  years  gone; 
And  he  drives  on  for  Zion,  as  "  God  wills  " 
To  find,  in  six  weeks  time,  the  Queen's  scarf  is 
Twisted  a-top  the  casque  of  Saladin. 
"  For    Sandbrueil's    ransom."  /  But    the   pouch-mouths 

add, 

"  She  went  out  hunting^  and  the  palm-tufts 
"  Give  shade  above  mottled  columns,  and  she  rode  back 

late, 

"  Late,  latish,  yet  perhaps  it  was  not  too  late." 
Then  France  again,  and  to  be  rid  of  her 
To  brush  his  antlers:  Poictiers,  Aquitaine!  • 
And  Adelaide  Castilla  wears  the  crown. 
Eleanor  down  water-butt,  dethroned,  debased,  unqueen'd. 

£G^,Unqueen'd^five  rare  (long  months, 
And  face  sand-red,  pitch  gait,  Harry  Plantagenet, 
The  sputter  in  place  of  speech, 
But  King,  about  to  be,  King  Louis!  takes  a  queen. 
"  E  quand  lo  reis  Louis  lo  entendit 

/mout  er   fasche" 
And  yet  Gisors,  in  six  years  thence, 
Was  Marguerite's.    And  Harry  joven 
In  pledge  for  all  his  life  and  life  of  all  his  heirs 
Shall  have  Gisors  and  Vexis  and  Neauphal,  Neufchastel; 


But  if  no  issue,  Gisors  shall  revert 
And  Vexis  and  Neufchastel  and  Neauphal  to  the  French 
/crown. 

"  Si  tuit  li  dot  el  plor  el  marrimen 
Del  mon  were  set  together  they  would  seem  but  light 
Against  the  death  of  the  young  English  King, 
Harry  the  Young  is  dead  and  all  men  mourn,  a  song, 
Mourn  all  good  courtiers,  fighters,  cantadors." 
And  still  Old  Harry  keeps  grip  on  Gisors 
And  Neufchastel  and  Neauphal  and  Vexis; 
And  two  years  war,  and  never  two  years  go  by 

but  come  new  forays,  and  "  The  wheel 
"  Turns,  Conrad,  turns,  and  in  the  end  toward  ill." 
And  Richard  and  Alix  span  the  gap,  Gisors, 
And  Eleanor  and  Richard  face  the  King, 
For  the  fourth  family  time  Plantagenet 
Faces  his  dam  and  whelps,  .  .  .  and  holds  Gisors, 
Now  Alix'  dowry,  against  Philippe-Auguste 
(Louis'  by  Adelaide,  wood-lost,  then  crowned  at  Etampe) 
And  never  two  years  sans  war. 

And  Zion  still 

Bleating  away  to  Eastward,  the  lost  lamb, 
Damned  city  (was  only  Frederic  knew 
The  true  worth  of,  and  patched  with  Malek  Kamel 
The  sane  and  sensible  peace  to  bait  the  world 
And  set  all  camps  disgruntled  with  all  leaders. 
"  Damn'd  atheists!  "  alike  Mahomet  growls, 
And  Christ  grutches  more  sullen  for  Sicilian  sense 
Than  does  Mahound  on  Malek.) 

The  bright  coat 

Is  more  to  the  era,  and  in  Messina's  beach-way 
Des  Barres  and  Richard  split  the  reed-lances 
And  the  coat  is  torn. 

(Moving  in  heavy  air:  Henry  and  Saladin.) 


(The  serpent  coils  in  the  crowd.) 
The  letters  run:  Tancred  to  Richard: 

That  the  French  King  is 
More  against  thee,  than  is  his  will  to  me 
Good  and  in  faith;    and  moves  against  your 
/safety. 

Richard  to  Tancred: 

That  our  pact  stands  firm, 

And,  for  these  slanders,  that  I  think  you  lie. 

Proofs,  and  in  writing: 

And  if  Bourgogne  say  they  were  not 

Deliver'd  by  hand  and  his, 

Let  him  move  sword  against  me  and  my  word. 

Richard  to  Philip:  silence,  with  a  tone. 

Richard  to  Flanders:  the  subjoined  and  precedent. 

Philip  a  silence;  and  then,  "  Lies  and  turned  lies 

"  For  that  he  will  fail  Alix 

"  Affianced,  and  Sister  to  Ourself." 

Richard:  "My  father's  bed-piece!     A  Plantagenet 

"  Mewls  on  the  covers,  with  a  nose  like  his,  already." 

Then: 

In  the  Name 

Of  Father  and  of  Son  Triune  and  Indivisible 

Philip  of  France  by  Goddes  Grace 

To  all  men  presents  that  our  noble  brother 

Richard  of  England  engaged  by  mutual  oath 

(a  sacred  covenant  applicable  to  both) 
Need  not  wed  Alix  but  whomso  he  choose 
We  cede  him  Gisors  Neauphal  and  Vexis 
And  to  the  heirs  male  of  his  house 
[85] 


Cahors  and  Querci  Richard's  the  abbeys  ours 
Of  Figeac  and  Souillao  St.  Gifies  left  still  in  peace 
— ^Alix  returns  to  France. 

Made  in  Messina  in 
The  year  1190  of  the  Incarnation  of  the  Word. 

Reed  lances  broken,  a  cloak  torn  by  Des  Barres 
Do  turn  King  Richard  from  the  holy  wars. 
And  "  God  aid  Conrad 

"  For  man's  aid  comes  slow,"  Aye  tarries  upon  the  road, 
En  Bertrans  cantat. 

And  before  all  this 
By  Correze,  Malemort 

A  young  man  walks,  at  church  with  galleried  porch 
By  river-marsh,  pacing, 
.  (He  was,  come  from  Ventadorn;  and  Eleanor  turning  on 

/thirty  years, 
X  Domna  jauzionda,  and  he  says  to  her 

"  My  lady  of  Ventadorn 

"  Is  shut  by  Eblis  in,  and  will  not  hawk  nor  hunt 
"  Nor  get  her  free  in  the  air, 

nor  watch  fish  rise  to  bait 

"  Nor  the  glare-wing'd  flies  alight  in  the  creek's  edge 
"  Save  in  my  absence,  Madame. 

'  Que  la  lauzeta  mover' 
"  Send  word,  I  ask  you,  to  Eblis, 

you  have  seen  that  maker 
"  And  finder  of  songs,  so  far  afield  as  this 
"  That  he  may  free  her, 

who  sheds  such  light  in  the  air." 


[86] 


THE  SEVENTH  CANTO 

E Eleanor  (she  spoiled  in  a  British  climate) 
cEXa^8/3o?  and  EXeVroXis,  and  poor  old  Homer 
blind,  blind  as  a  bat, 

Ear,  ear  for  the  sea-surge —  ;  rattle  of  old  men's  voices; 
And  then  the  phantom  Rome,  marble  narrow  for  seats 

"  Si  pulvis  nullus.  .  .  ." 

In  chatter  above  the  circus,  "  Nullum  excute  tamen." 
Then:  file  and  candles,  e  li  mestiers  ecoutes; 
Scene  —  for  the  battle  only,  —  but  still  scene, 
Pennons  and  standards  y  cavals  armatz, 
Not  mere  succession  of  strokes,  sightless  narration, 
To  Dante's  "  ciocco,"  the  brand  struck  in  the  game. 
Un  peu  moisi,  plancher  plus  bas  que  le  jardin. 
Centre  le  lambris,  fauteuil  de  paille, 
Un  vieux  piano,  et  sous  le  barometre  .  .  . 
The  old  men's  voices  —  beneath  the  columns  of  false 

marble, 

And  the  walls  tinted  discreet,  the  modish,  darkish  green- 
blue, 

Discreeter  gilding,  and  the  panelled  wood 
Not  present,  but  suggested,  for  the  leasehold  is 
Touched  with  an  imprecision  .  .  .  about  three  squares; 
The  house  a  shade  too  solid,  and  the  art 
A  shade  off  action,  paintings  a  shade  too  thick. 
And  the  great  domed  head,  con  gli  occhi  onesti  e  tardi 
Moves  before  me,  phantom  with  weighted  motion, 
Grave  incessu,  drinking  the  tone  of  things, 
And  the  old  voice  lifts  itself 

weaving  an  endless  sentence. 
We  also  made  ghostly  visits,  and  the  stair 
That  knew  us,  found  us  again  on  the  turn  of  it, 
Knocking  at  empty  rooms,  seeking  a  buried  beauty; 


And  the  sun-tanned  gracious  and  well-formed  fingers 
Lift  no  latch  of  bent  bronze,  no  Empire  handle 
Twists  for  the  knocker's  fall;  no  voice  to  answer. 
A  strange  concierge,  in  place  of  the  gouty-footed. 
Sceptic  against  all  this  one  seeks  the  living, 
Stubborn  against  the  fact.    The  wilted  flowers 
Brushed  out  a  seven  year  since,  of  no  effect. 
Damn  the  partition!     Paper,  dark  brown  and  stretched, 
Flimsy  and  damned  partition. 

lone,  dead  the  long  year, 
My  lintel,  and  Liu  Ch'e's  lintel. 
Time  blacked  out  with  the  rubber. 

The  Elysee  carries  a  name  on 
And  the  bus  behind  me  gives  me  a  date  for  peg; 
Low  ceiling  and  the  Erard  and  silver, 
These    are    in    "  time."      Four    chairs,    the    bow-front 

dresser, 
The  pannier  of  the  desk,  cloth  top  sunk  in. 

"  Beer-bottle  on  the  statue's  pediment! 
"  That,  Fritz,  is  the  era,  to-day  against  the  past, 
"  Contemporary."     And  the  passion  endures. 
Against  their  action,  aromas;  rooms,  against  chronicles. 
Smaragdos,  chrysolites,  De  Gama  wore  striped  pants  in 

Africa 
And  "  Mountains  of  the  sea  gave  birth  to  troops," 

Le  vieux  commode  en  acajou  :> 

beer  bottles  of  various  strata. 
But  is  she  as  dead  as  Tyro?    In  seven  years? 
'EXeWus,  eXcu>S/oo9,  eXeVroXi?, 
The  sea  runs  in  the  beach-groove,  shaking  the  floated 

pebbles, 
Eleanor! 

The  scarlet  curtain  throws  a  less  scarlet  shadow; 
[88] 


Lamplight  at  Buovilla,  e  quel  remir, 

And  all  that  day 
Nicea  moved  before  me 
And  the  cold  gray  air  troubled  her  not 
For  all  her  naked  beauty,  bit  not  the  tropic  skin, 
And  the  long  slender  feet  lit  on  the  curb's  marge 
And  her  moving  height  went  before  me, 

We  alone  having  being. 

And  all  that  day,  another  day: 

Thin  husks  I  had  known  as  men, 
Dry  casques  of  departed  locusts 

speaking  a  shell  of  speech  .  .  . 
Propped  between  chairs  and  table  .  .  . 
Words  like  the  locust-shells,  moved  by  no  inner  being, 

A  dryness  calling  for  death. 
Another  day,  between  walls  of  a  sham  Mycenian, 
"  Toe  "  sphinxes,  sham-Memphis  columns, 
And  beneath  the  jazz  a  cortex,  a  stiffness  or  stillness, 

The  older  shell,  varnished  to  lemon  colour, 
Brown-yellow  wood,  and  the  no  colour  plaster, 
Dry  professorial  talk  .  .  . 

now  stilling  the  ill  beat  music, 
House  expulsed  by  this  house,  but  not  extinguished. 

Square  even  shoulders  and  the  satin  skin, 
Gone  cheeks  of  the  dancing  woman, 

Still  the  old  dead  dry  talk,  gassed  out 
It  is  ten  years  gone,  makes  stiff  about  her  a  glass, 
A  petrification  of  air. 

The  old  room  of  the  tawdry  class  asserts  itself. 
The  young  men,  never! 

Only  the  husk  of  talk. 
O  voi  che  siete  in  piccioletta  barca, 
Dido  choked  up  with  sobs  for  her  Sicheus 


Lies  heavy  in  my  arms,  dead  weight 

Drowning  with  tears,  new  Eros, 
And  the  life  goes  on,  mooning  upon  bare  hills; 
Flame  leaps  from  the  hand,  the  rain  is  listless, 
Yet  drinks  the  thirst  from  our  lips, 

solid  as  echo, 

Passion  to  breed  a  form  in  shimmer  of  rain-blurr; 
But  Eros  drowned,  drowned,  heavy-half  dead  with  tears 

For  dead  Sicheus. 
Life  to  make  mock  of  motion: 
For  the  husks,  before  me,  move, 

The  words  rattle:  shells  given  out  by  shells. 

The  live  man,  out  of  lands  and  prisons, 

shakes  the  dry  pods, 

Probes  for  old  wills  and  friendships,  and  the  big  locust- 
casques 

Bend  to  the  tawdry  table, 

Lift  up  their  spoons  to  mouths,  put  forks  in  cutlets, 
And  make  sound  like  the  sound  of  voices. 

Lorenzaccio 

Being  more  live  than  they,  more  full  of  flames  and  voices. 
Ma  si  morisse! 

Credesse  caduto  da  se,  ma  si  morisse. 
And  the  tall  indifference  moves, 

a  more  living  shell, 

Drift  in  the  air  of  fate,  dry  phantom,  but  intact, 
O  Alessandro,  chief  and  thrice  warned,  watcher, 

Eternal  watcher  of  things, 
Of  things,  of  men,  of  passions. 

Eyes  floating  in  dry,  dark  air; 
E  biondo,  with  glass-gray  iris,  with  an  even  side-fall  of 

hair 
The  stiff,  still  features. 

[90] 


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